


The Graveyard Shift

by Flanemoji



Series: St. Maturin's Regional Hospital [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Gore, Graphic Description, Horror, Implied Attempted Suicide, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Nurse Eddie Kaspbrak, canon adjacent, depictions of medical stuff, hospital au, more tags to be added as necessary!, paramedic richie tozier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flanemoji/pseuds/Flanemoji
Summary: This time last week, Eddie could pay absolutely no mind to any shift or click in the hospital. It was all ambient noise, blending in with the background of air conditioners and machine beeping. The last few days, though, it had all started to make him feel… fidgety. He’d shift his weight from foot to foot, tap his fingers on his legs… anything to not pay mind to every little sound that echoed along fluorescent colored halls and back supply rooms. Ever since the Hallway Incident, Eddie had been on edge, like the air around him had somehow shifted, a persistent frequency of worry that he could just barely hear over the usual hustle and bustle.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Series: St. Maturin's Regional Hospital [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903891
Comments: 22
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to be writing for this! I really hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing it :) This is a continuation of the previous fic, The Hallway Incident, so go into the series and read that first if you haven't! Drop some comments if u like ;)
> 
> no major warnings in this chapter!

They all start referring to it as The Hallway Incident.

Eddie hated it, but the name sort of just stuck.

It started with Richie, because when doesn’t it, when Bill and Mike were visiting. Eddie was on break, so they’d facetimed him, and Eddie had added Beverly. Beverly had added Ben, and Patty, sitting next to Eddie in the break room stealing his chips, put Stan on speaker phone. 

“I love that we all just have an absolutely terrible sleep schedule.” Richie laughed. Eddie tried to look like he hadn't noticed his hair in a messy little bun. 

“I have an excuse.” Eddie chimes in, popping a chip into his mouth.

“So do I!” Patty pipes up, shoving herself into the camera view. Eddie laughs and shoulders her gently. 

“Well, my fiancée works the night shift, so I guess that covers me.” Stan’s voice filters through Patty’s phone. 

From outside of the screen’s view, Bill shouts: “I have nightmares about a clown!”

There’s a beat of silence before everyone, except Patty, responds in perfect unison.

_“Me, too!”_

“Ugh, your weird telepathic synchronization is so weird.” Patty takes another chip from Eddie and makes a show of rolling her eyes.

“That’s on _trauma_ baby!” Richie winks and shoots finger guns at the screen. “And if you’re gonna marry our Stanny Boy, you’ll have to get used to it! It comes with the honorary Loser status.”

“Are you calling my future wife a loser?” Stan asks, and Eddie can just imagine the raised eyebrows and the deadpan stare. 

“Not a loser, Staniel, a _Loser_ , capital ‘L’. There’s a difference.” Richie emphasizes the letter and makes a little motion with his fingers. 

“There is? I thought we were just reclaiming the title for your sake, Richie.” Ben’s innocent voice cuts in, and like a bunch of college fraternity boys, they start to hoot and holler. 

“Benny Boy, _wow!_ You wound me.” Richie pretends to faint like a Victorian widower and flops onto his bed with a wistful sigh. “An already wounded man, down on his luck--!”

“Wait!” Patty puts her hands up to interrupt Richie’s theatrics. “Does this mean when I marry Stan I’ll get telepathic powers?” Eddie nearly snorts water out of his nose.

“No Pats, Jesus!” Eddie responds at the same time that Richie says, “We have to experience a traumatic event together, first!”

This is usually how it goes when they are all together, because the seven of them, The Losers Club, had a very close, almost-family-like, maybe-sometimes-unhealthy relationship with each other. They’d known each other their whole lives, and growing up in the child murder capitol of America really makes a group of kids want to stick together. There was a short time after high school when they spent time apart, but that barely lasted a year. It didn’t take long for them to realize that acclimating to the world outside of Derry, Maine seemed damn near impossible alone, and just like that, the Lucky Seven were settling into the same city. Both names had been bestowed upon the group by Richie, which brings us back to....

“Putting all _that_ aside, how are you feeling, Rich?” Leave it to Mike to bring them all back on track. 

“I mean, besides having like, fifteen seizures and nearly dislocating my arm in restraints? Pretty damn great!” Richie offers up a wide, hollow smile that makes Eddie’s stomach roll. He pushes aside his food and glares at his image on the phone screen.

“You had _five_ seizures, Tozier, and _no one_ has been able to give us an explanation as to why.” Eddie’s tone is cold, leaving an awkward silence in the air. “A tox screen, a CT, blood tests--no one can figure out what happened, and you--”

“ _Ugghhhh!_ ” Richie groans and throws his head back again. “Can we _stop_ talking about the hallway incident already. I just wanna enjoy my paid vacation.” 

“Vacation?!” Eddie shouts, gesturing at Richie and nearly knocking his phone over on the table. “You’re on _medical_ _leave,_ Richie, not a _vacation!"_

Bill cuts in, trying to prevent the inevitable. “The Hallway Incident?”

Richie rolls his eyes on screen and ignores Eddie’s furious stare in a way that just makes him want to run up to his room on the sixth floor and _strangle him_ , maybe smother him with one of those ridiculous plastic pillows. Almost as ridiculous as his avoidant, _stupid_ , best friend--

“ _Eddie_ swears he saw--”

“I _did_ see--!”

“Yeah and I _told you_ \--!”

“You didn’t _tell_ me anything! You just avoided the topic altogether!”

“Okay, okay, enough, lovebirds!” Beverly shouts, waving her hands on screen to get their attention. 

“We’re not lovebirds!” Richie and Eddie snap. Everyone stares in this horridly knowing way that makes his fucking chest hurt, shoulders tensing as he gears up for another explosion. He’s a chainsaw revving and Richie is both the gardner holding him and the tree he’s about to _chop the fuck down if--_

Mike tries to pave the path to peace. “Eddie, just. Breathe. What _did_ you see?”

Eddie takes a deep breath, counts to five, and lets it out slowly. Bill is back in view next to Mike, with Richie giving him the back of his head to stare out the window. Bev and Ben look just as concerned, and Stan hasn’t uttered a word.

_“Tozier? Why the fuck are you just standing there?” Eddie jogs towards the middle of the hall where Richie stands, unnaturally stiff, like there’s something holding him in place. He’s mumbling something under his breath, too quiet for Eddie to catch._

_“...Richie?” Eddie puts his hand on his shoulder, fingertips barely grazing the fabric of his t-shirt, and Richie_ **_screams_ ** _, drops to the floor in a heap like his bones lost all will to work. Eddie stumbles backwards, yelling out his name again when Richie begins to thrash, nearly slamming his head into a nearby wall._

_“Rich! Oh fuck, shit…” Eddie throws himself down to the floor and pulls Richie’s head into his lap. Richie fights him, bending his spine off the tiles and digging his fingers into it, nails scrabbling helplessly. Eddie grabs a hold of his jaw and turns his head to the left, putting his body between Richie’s head and the wall. Richie’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he gasps._

_“EEhh--diiIIIEEE!” The sound that tears from Richie’s lips is inhuman, a guttural wheeze that pierces through Eddie like a physical piece of shrapnel._

_“Richie! I’m right here, I--”_

_“I…” Richie’s irises begin to show again, his pupils tiny dots of black in a sea of blue. For a second, it looks almost like he’s there, staring at Eddie with a conscious thought, his face crumpling into a look of despair that just tears a fucking hole into him. Richie’s eyes well up with tears, spilling down his cheeks like a river. “Eddie! Eddie you’re alive, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I left you, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to! I tried, Eddie, I tried to get you out, I swear!”_

_Richie’s hand reaches up towards Eddie’s shocked face, gasping out the words in between the sobs that wrack his chest. Eddie doesn’t know what to do, his hands hovering uselessly around Richie’s face. “I--”_

_Richie stops speaking midway through another devastated apology, his eyes going blank and unfocusing again. Blood drips out of his nose and his whole body stiffens._

_“Richie?!” Eddie goes back to stabilizing his head while Richie starts to shake, his muscles locked into place and saliva foaming out of his slack-jawed mouth. He keeps the top of Richie’s head pressed to his stomach, trying his best not to interfere with the convulsions while keeping him on his side._

_Eddie pulls his work phone out of his chest pocket and dials the extension for the nurse’s station. When the secretary picks up, he doesn’t even let her finish her introduction._

_“I’m in the east hallway on the way to the lounge, Richie is having a seizure, send me back-up, now!”_

“I—” Eddie struggles around his words, because he _knows_ what he saw, fuck, he can’t even _try_ to forget the pain and suffering in Richie’s eyes… there was no way to make that up. Richie had spoken to him in those moments like a desperate, dying man, and it had scared Eddie so badly he couldn’t sleep the entire day after, sitting in Richie’s hospital room just staring at his sedated form. 

He stares at his hands, fingers clenching and unclenching around nothing in the air. He remembers how Richie had clawed at his chest, searching for something there that Eddie couldn't understand. He looks up to find everyone staring at him, waiting, and a wave of anxiety washes over him like a freezing cold tide. 

The worst is Richie. Even through the little screen of the phone, Eddie can see the concerned way he bores holes into his body. 

“...Eddie?” Patty places her hand on his shoulder, shocking him out of his trance. Eddie shakes his head and tosses what’s left of his sandwich. He can’t stand to face the way everyone is looking at him. 

“...I think my break is over. Nurse Ratched is on duty, so you know she’ll come looking for me.” Eddie’s joke falls flat, his voice low and quiet. Everyone nods in understanding, but the air is stifled with awkwardness. He hangs up and puts his head on the table. 

“...Do you wanna talk about it?” The break room is uncomfortably silent.

Eddie lifts his head and sighs, smiling over at Patty’s worried face. She’s always so genuine, a tender heart and so much love. She was a perfect fit for Stan. 

“Not really. I’d rather never think about it again. And I really _do_ have to go back. I’m sure there’s an admission waiting for me.” Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“You and me both.” She smiles, throwing away what’s left of her own food. He’s grateful she doesn’t push more than that. “Let’s go before she makes us work on separate sides of the unit again.” 

Eddie and Patty had met back when Eddie first started working for St. Maturin’s Regional. She’d been working in the emergency department for six months, and Eddie, a brand new nurse, felt a little at odds in a new environment. They made fast friends, because Patty, angel that she was, showed him the ropes and helped him settle into their weird, mid shift of coffee-addicts. He’d only worked it for a week before he realized he’d probably never work another shift again. Patty was the only person who could meet him toe-to-toe when he was being snippy, while still keeping her sweet-as-honey demeanor. The woman didn’t take any back-talk from a soul, not a patient or a doctor, and she could put a urine catheter in someone from a mile away. It was kind of amazing, at least from a nurse's perspective. 

She also had quite the obsession with birds, flowers, and puzzles. 

Eddie had introduced her to Stan within a month, and they were smitten ever since. 

They take the long way back to the unit, Patty leading them in an attempt to avoid the location of the Hallway Incident. 

_Wait_. 

...He hates Richie.

* * *

The rest of his shift goes pretty smoothly by their usual standards. He gets a few admissions and is done with all his charting by two. He’s out the door by three-thirty in the morning, so it’s definitely one of his better nights. He and Patty pack up their things in the lounge, saying goodbye at the entrance to the hospital. She leaves him with a look that says she knows exactly where he’s going.

He ignores it. 

Eddie is thankful that there’s a twenty-four hour convenience store down the street from where he works. Their coffee isn’t great, but it’s definitely better than whatever liquid cardboard Starbucks tries to sell him, and the person who works the early morning shift knows exactly how to talk to him without pissing him off. 

“Kaspbrak! How are ya? How’s your friend?” The cashier smiles, getting a bag ready for his stuff. That’s one of the perks of working the three p.m to three am mid-shift; the night owls all know each other. 

Eddie smiles back, grabbing a protein bar and two donuts. “He’s alright, having cabin fever probably.” He heads over to the coffee machines and pours himself a large cup, shoving another one into the hot chocolate dispenser. Richie has never been fond of coffee, but he’s a sucker for sweets. He pulls his surgical cap off and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t even want to think about what he looks like right now. 

He pays for the food and heads right back into St. Maturin’s, heading away from the emergency department and towards the elevators that lead to the hospital floors. He’s grateful that it takes less than ten minutes for one of the doors to open, and doubly grateful when there isn’t anyone inside. The elevator makes whirring noises as it’s doors close and it moves upward, an automated voice sounding off whenever it stops.

This time last week, Eddie could pay absolutely no mind to any shift or click in the hospital. It was all ambient noise, blending in with the background of air conditioners and machine beeping. The last few days, though, it had all started to make him feel… fidgety. He’d shift his weight from foot to foot, tap his fingers on his legs… anything to not pay mind to every little sound that echoed along fluorescent colored halls and back supply rooms. Ever since the Hallway Incident, Eddie had been on edge, like the air around him had somehow shifted, a persistent frequency of worry that he could just _barely_ hear over the usual hustle and bustle.

The elevator doors open and it sounds off his destination, snapping Eddie out of his thoughts. He shakes his head and takes a big gulp of his coffee, hoping it’ll wake him up from this obviously sleep-deprived paranoia. His anxiety is always worse under stress and when he doesn’t sleep, and he’s currently sitting on both. 

He heads straight to Richie’s room, offering a nod to the desk secretary’s chipper _“Morning, Kaspbrak!”_ Working for the emergency department has its perks and its downsides, and after four years, he’s yet to decide which category “sort-of knowing everyone in the hospital” falls under. 

“Knock-knock, asshole. Please tell me your dick isn’t out.” Eddie shoulders the door open and scrunches his eyes up, opening one to Richie’s goofy smile. Richie lifts his blanket up and looks under, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, you definitely woke him up with that mornin’ greeting, Kaspbrak.” He winks and sits up, eyeing the bag in Eddie’s hand. Eddie pulls out one of the wrapped donuts and drops it into Richie’s lap, putting the hot chocolate into his outstretched hand. 

“You’re disgusting.” Eddie’s voice carries absolutely no malice. He settles himself into the chair next to Richie’s bed, positioned to face him, and sets his own things down, sagging into the seat. It’s nice to finally sit again. 

Richie is still smiling, peeking into the bag he now holds in his hands. He gasps, playing up his southern belle accent. “ _Oh Edward!_ Ya shouldn’t have! Is this your way of apologizin’ to lil’ ol’ me for our little tizzy earlier?” He bats his eyes and purses his lips, using his free hand to fan himself like there’s a Mississippi heat wave in the room. Eddie snorts and rolls his eyes, taking a bite from his protein bar to hide his smile at his antics.

“I don’t have to apologize for anything, you dick.” But Eddie is looking away, knowing that Richie will see the lie in his eyes, as if he doesn’t see it in the hunch of his shoulders or the tapping of his fingers. 

“Well I am. Sorry, I mean.” Richie answers around a mouthful of donut. 

“Trashmouth? Apologizing?” Eddie raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“Yeah, yeah, only for you, Spaghetti,” and even with the stupid nickname and his mouth full of food, Eddie’s heart skips a beat at the words. _Only for you._

“I mean it, too.” Richie continues, staring at his lap. “I just… I don’t want to talk about it, and I _know_ you don’t want to talk about it, either.”

“But we have to, Rich. There’s just… There’s no explanation for what happened!” Eddie huffs, leaning back into his chair and gripping his cup a little tighter. “You were fine, and then suddenly I come into the hallway and you’re-- you’re having a fucking seizure on the floor, bleeding out of your nose and-and screaming about…” Eddie’s eyes shift back and forth on the floor, images of Richie’s horrified face rushing back into his mental view, shouting his name like it’s the only thing that could save him. 

_I’m sorry, Eddie, I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to leave you, I promise I tried!_

He finally looks up to meet Richie’s eyes, which are pleading with him to change the subject. His usually smiling face is stony, an unreadable expression etched there. Richie, for all his boisterous exclamations and big gestures, was actually an expert at hiding how he felt from everyone around him. It drove Eddie, who wore every expression on his face, absolutely insane. 

“What time are they letting you leave?” Eddie admits defeat, tucking his legs under him on the chair. He ignores the way Richie’s looks at him, with his hair pulled in a messy knot at the top of his head and his bangs ruffled over his forehead. There’s sleep around his eyes and his victory smile is rare, because it isn’t stupid or snarky or perverted.

It’s genuine.

Eddie’s heart hurts.

“I can go at like twelve.” Richie wiggles in his bed, getting comfortable. “You could go home, y’know. I can call Steve and the guys to come pick me up, since my car is back there.” 

Eddie hums. “I could, yeah.” He motions for the extra pillow by Richie’s head, pulling the lever on his chair to open the footrest. Richie pouts, throwing the pillow a little too hard and snorting when Eddie flips him the bird. 

They don’t talk much after that, Richie flipping through channels on the television until he finds a stupid, eighties style game show. They bicker about the answers, gloating at each other when one of them is right. Eventually, Eddie’s twelve hour shift starts to hit him, blurring the edges of Richie’s dark room. His mind starts to drift. 

_They’re laying in Richie’s room, above the covers of his messy bed. His mom was nice enough to not ask any questions when he practically begged Eddie to stay the night. She even called his mommy._

_“The boys have been playing here all day, don’t you worry Sonia. I’ll keep an eye on Eddie. Oh, yes… of course I’ll make sure he takes his nighttime medication.” She shakes her head at Eddie’s terrified eyes._

_Eddie is grateful, because he didn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t think any of them did, but it was harder to convince one of their parents to let the six of them sleep over, he guesses. Richie is drawing on Eddie’s cast with a sharpie. He’s going to have to get a new one anyway._

_“Richie… I can’t sleep.” Eddie whispers to him in the dark. Richie has barely spoken since they got back from the sewers. He’s barely looked at Eddie, either. “What if It comes back? What if we can’t fight it like we did this time? What if--”_

_“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” Richie answers, soft and quiet, so very unlike him._

_“I don’t_ **_want_ ** _to cross that bridge. Not ever again.” Eddie turns his body to face the ceiling, his arm still at his side while Richie doodles. “I never want to see a clown again in my life. I never want to see another red balloon in my life.”_

_Richie doesn’t answer. He draws a flower by Eddie’s thumb and a penis by the L on his arm. Eddie turns his head against to watch him. Usually, when Richie draws, his face is twisted in focused concentration. He scrunches his eyebrows and wrinkles his nose. Sometimes he sticks his tongue out, too. Right now, his face just looks… blank. It just doesn’t seem right._

_Eddie reaches his other hand out and puts it on Richie’s arm. He stops drawing but he doesn’t look up. Eddie wishes he knew what to say, he wishes he could find the words to make it all okay._

_But how do you make something like this okay?_

_He wiggles closer to Richie in the bed, putting his head right by his chest. His bony shoulder digs into his side and his collarbone pokes his cheek. Richie wraps his arms around him, and he feels warm. They fall asleep like that._

Eddie shifts his gaze and stares out the window, following the clouds that move across the early morning skyline. It’s still pretty dark out, so he must have only drifted for a little while.

He glances over towards Richie, who has fallen asleep with his head propped against the side-rail of the bed, his pillow shoved between his cheek and the plastic. He’s drooling, and every few seconds a little snore will filter out through his breathing. Eddie smiles despite himself, disgusted by how endearing the motherfucker can be. 

He shifts his gaze back to stare at the sky, when something in his reflection catches his eye, a dark red spot in the center of his chest. He looks down, noticing the maroon stain spreading over his scrubs, dribbling down into his lap. 

“What the fuck…” His whisper echoes in the darkness, his hand reaching up towards the center of it. He knows what it is, the smell of iron unmistakable in the air, but it’s impossible. His palm touches warm, wet fabric and his heart starts to beat harder. With every thump, more blood spills out over his fingers.

“E-Eddie… I’m sorry, I’m so _sorry._ ”

Eddie whips his head back towards Richie, grime smeared all over his face. There’s tear streaks running down his cheeks. Eddie tries to get up, but he feels like he’s glued to the chair. His head spins.

“Eddie, I didn’t want to leave you, I’m sorry.” 

Eddie opens his mouth to ask Richie what he means, but what comes out is more blood, thick and clotted. 

Richie’s face contorts into agony, his fists clenching the sheets around him. The room feels like it’s filled with it, with Richie’s guilt and sadness. Eddie reaches a bloody hand out towards him, trying to speak again. 

_“Richie--”_

* * *

Eddie jolts awake, gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest so hard it rattles his ribcage. His hand flies to his chest and clenches at the space by his sternum. The early morning dawn light is filtering into the room, and Eddie can just barely see his hazy reflection, fearful eyes and heaving chest.

“Eds? Hey, Eds, are you okay?” Richie’s concerned voice snaps him back to the now.

He’s staring at him, puzzled and concerned, no trace of the anguish and the tears from before. 

Eddie shakes his head and slumps back into his chair, taking deep, measured breaths. He rubs at his eyes and lets out a slow exhale. 

“Y-Yeah. I’m fine. Just… a really weird dream, is all.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for blood and descriptions of blood/wounds in this one! enjoy!!!
> 
> no beta y'all...sorry for mistakes

“Oh Eddie _Spaghettiiiii_!” 

Eddie groans, turning himself to face a corner in the wall. He curls protectively around his enormously large cup of iced coffee and pointedly ignores the way _someone_ starts to shake his chair. “No. No, I don’t want whatever you’re selling. Go away.”

“Awe, Eds, c’mon!” Richie pouts, but his eyes are twinkling with amusement. “Don’t tell me you didn’t miss my wonderfully detailed hand-offs!” Eddie pretends to be very interested in the blinking dots between the numbers on his watch as Richie peers around his shoulder. He shakes the chair again, laughing like Eddie isn’t actively trying to swat him away for disturbing his pre-report rituals.

“I did _not_ miss your hand-offs.” Eddie scoffs, tapping his fingers on his keyboard a little harder than necessary. His eyes stay trained onto the screen, watching his electronic record load up, and definitely _not_ watching the way Richie smiles at him like this is his most favorite part of the day. It probably is, considering one of Richie’s pastimes is tormenting Eddie until he’s like a tea kettle ready to explode. 

Richie sits himself down in the chair next to him and rests his cheek in his hand. “Alright, alright,” he sighs, seemingly relenting, “I’ll wait until you’re done with your dinner, you little gremlin.” Richie is able to sit still for three sips of coffee before he starts to smack his pen against the counter, a rhythmic little _tap-taptap-tap_ that pops against Eddie’s ears like darts on balloons. Then he starts _whistling_ , a jaunty-way-too-happy for the beginning of his shift tune. Eddie takes a deep breath. 

_One… two…_

Richie starts to tap his leg against the wheels on Eddie’s seat. 

“Oh _my god!”_ A tech writing vital signs down across the counter from them drops her pen, and Eddie shyly waves his hand in awkward embarrassment. He closes his eyes and starts again, this time in a lower tone. "Can’t you give Patty a patient, Tozier?” 

Richie bats his eyes innocently, using his pen to point toward a curtained off spot with the number four over it. “I already gave her a patient, don’t think it’d be fair to give her another one right now.”

Eddie peers over the edge of the station, watching a distressed Patty standing between a man and an iPad on wheels. The man on the stretcher is red-faced and breathing heavily, shooting symbols with his hands so quickly Eddie can barely see the changes in his finger positions. Patty keeps looking between him and the translator on the screen, who, keeping in time with the man's quick signing, won’t stop yelling.

“Ow! Ouch, _ow_! Oh!” 

Patty, with her specially cultivated Hospitality Smile, tries to interrupt. “I know it hurts, sir, but I need you to tell me _where._ ” The patient gives another slew of rapid-fire hand movements and the translator responds”

“I don’t know where it hurts, it just does!” 

Eddie snorts, almost spitting his coffee on his papers in front of him, ducking his head down when Patty shoots daggers in his direction. He swears that woman could hear a pin drop at a concert; he feels bad for Stan and their future kids. Richie doesn’t even try to stifle his chuckles as he watches the scene unfold. 

“ _Fine_ ,” Eddie groans, pulling his fold-up clipboard out of his pocket. “Hand it over.” takes one more long sip of coffee, like a drag from a cigarette, and with the way he can’t even say _‘good afternoon’_ without it, he’d say it’s just as addictive. Eddie would never admit that, though. Richie spins in his chair and hops off, Eddie following him around the corner to the high hall, a row of little cubby-style rooms labelled with numbers from fifteen to twenty-five. Their steps fall in tandem as they weave around nurses and phlebotomists and transporters. Eddie stares down at his paper and writes while Richie talks.

“Alright, Nurse Spaghetti--”

“Don’t call me that.”

“We’ve got a thirty-four year old female with a suspected broken coccyx.” Richie talks over him, a tiny smile on his face. 

“Did you use the medical term just so you could say ‘cocks’?” Eddie looks up from where he’s writing notes. Richie snorts the second he says ‘cocks.’ 

“Moving on,” Richie continues, stopping in front of bed twenty-three. Behind the bed, Eddie can hear someone sniffling. “We got a call from her boyfriend. Apparently, they were having a pretty rowdy birthday party, and Ms. Leighton here was wearing the _latest_ and _tallest_ Jimmy Choo’s. No cigarettes, occasional pot smoker, no kids, boyfriend had to wait back at their place. We called her sister to come, since her parents live like two hours away. Vitals are okay, she’s a little tachycardic, but nothing crazy. Probably gonna need an x-ray.” Richie pushes his hair back out of his eyes and shrugs. “ And that’s all she wrote, Eds! Questions?” 

Eddie scribbles some empty check-boxes on his paper, writing ‘x-ray?’ next to the first box. “Does she drink?”

Richie laughs and grabs hold of the curtain. “Oh yeah, she definitely drinks.” 

They walk into the little make-shift room to a young woman curled up on her side, absolutely bawling her eyes out like her mommy just told her that Paco, her two-day old goldfish, got flushed to heaven. 

“Oh Jesus, Tozier, you asshole.” Eddie whispers, jabbing his elbow into Richie’s ribs. If it were anyone else, Richie probably would have disclosed that this lady was _piss-ass_ drunk, but since it’s Eddie, and Richie is _Richie_ , he loves to save the best for last. Eddie steps over towards the bag of fluid hanging from a pole near the bed, doing his regular checks while Richie handles the conversation.

“Hey, sweetheart, I’ve gotta get goin’ but I’m leavin’ you in the very best hands, okay?” Richie’s tone when he speaks with his patients is always beyond gentle, smooth and soothing. How a man who spends seventy-five percent of his day shouting and doing stupid accents can accomplish this level of tenderness in his voice is beyond Eddie’s understanding, and so is the way that it stirs up the blood in his heart to pump out a little faster than usual. “This is Eddie, he’s gonna make sure you feel better.” 

Eddie taps two fingers to his forehead and does a little salute. “Richie tells me you fell at a party?” He does a once-over, pulling out his paper to jot down another task by the second box: _fluids._

“Y-yeah, I was walkin’ and then Mary was holding my hand and I slipped and fell by the edge of the pool, and my shoes!” The woman shoots up and _wails_ , Eddie jolting towards her and Richie jumping back. She throws herself back down onto the pillow, fresh, black-stained tears pouring down her cheeks and ruining the sheets. “The heel _broke!_ ” Her voice cracks, and Eddie can’t tell if she’s crying because of the pain in her tailbone, or because her shoes are ruined. 

“Mhm, I’m sure they were very expensive.” He makes a sympathetic noise, which sounds very sincere, considering Eddie could not give a shit about the shoes. “We’ll make sure your boyfriend buys you new ones, how’s that sound?” 

She blinks her clumpy lashes and stares up at him in awe. “Oh, you _are_ the best!” 

“Told ya!” Richie responds, offering a happy little wave as they exit towards the hallway. He closes the curtain behind them and stares at Eddie, teeth on his lips to suppress his smile. 

“You fucking suck, Tozier.” Eddie groans, dragging his hand down his cheek. “You start my night off with a drunk lady crying about her shoes?” Richie shrugs again, barely restraining how delighted he is. 

“They’re _Jimmy Choo’s_ , Eddie!” 

Eddie whacks him across the arm with his clipboard. 

* * *

It’s been about a week since the Hallway Incident, and if you hadn’t been around when it happened, you’d never know Richie had even scraped a knee, let alone had multiple, unexplained seizures. 

As soon as he’d been discharged, Richie had jumped back into work, begging to do a drive that same night. Eddie was grateful that his co-workers had all but barred him from the station, insisting he take at least another three days off. Eddie had demanded he take another week, and at Ben’s calm suggestion in the groupchat, Richie reluctantly agreed to two. As soon as his boss allowed it, though, Richie was right back to it. 

_“I get bored at home all alone.” Richie complains one day to Eddie, his voice filling up the car through surround-sound speakers._

_“Are you fucking kidding me? Get a hobby, Tozier.”_

_“You could be my hobby, Kaspbrak.” Richie shoots back, using his quote-on-quote sultry voice._

_“Yeah, sure. I charge by the minute.” Eddie nearly runs a red light and has to slam on the brakes._

Every time he asked Richie how he was feeling, he’d reply with some variation of: “Great, how _you_ doin’ Eds?” until eventually, Eddie stopped asking, because if Eddie Kaspbrak was a bull, Richie Tozier was a Spaniard with a red tablecloth; neither one of them was going to give in. 

Now that wasn’t to say Eddie had stopped worrying about it, oh no, it was only just _barely_ missing the “consuming every waking thought” point. His recent google searches ranged from _mystery seizure_ to _stress hallucinations_ , and once, sitting in the break room all alone at one twenty-six AM, _I had a dream about a hole in my chest, what does that mean?_

Eddie, ever hypocritical about sharing feelings, hadn’t told anyone about that last bit, or the fact that it didn’t seem to be a one time thing, either. When his shift was particularly stressful, he’d catch glimpses of that dream-self in the corner of his eye, bloody chest and a bandaged face, in the tall, windowed hallways that led to the blood bank. It never stayed for long; one double-take and there was nothing to stare at but his wrinkled scrubs and the circles under his eyes. 

“Have you ever dreamt something weird about yourself?” Eddie asks Patty absently, two hours into their shift. Her deaf patient had gone home with some new painkillers and Eddie, being the best work-husband around, got her a mint majesty tea for all her efforts. She’s sitting in her usual spot next to him, writing a nursing note that could be a college essay. 

“I think I had a dream once where I was a bird?” She finishes off her sentence and turns to face him, pursing her lips. “It was like...a point-of-view thing. I couldn’t see myself, but I had wings, and there were clouds around. It was nice.” 

“Only you and Stan would dream about being birds.” Eddie laughs, nudging her elbow.

“Well, I guess we’re just birds of a feather, then.” She winks and Eddie rolls his eyes, accusing her of hanging out with Richie too much. She doesn’t prod any further, and Eddie thinks he’s gotten off the hook without one of her innocently-toned interrogations. Ten minutes later, though, she takes a thoughtful sip of her tea, and without looking at him, says: “Have you been having any weird dreams?” 

Eddie doesn’t take his eyes off his computer, hoping Patty doesn’t notice the way his shoulders tense. He pushes off his chair and waves his hand. “Nope,” he’s proud of how airly he manages to say it, spotting a distracted man in a lab coat pacing down the low hall. “Dr. Rows!” Eddie waves Patty off, following him to the corner. “The x-rays are back for bed twenty-three, her tailbone is definitely broken.” 

* * *

“You’re fucking _lying_ , Kaspbrak!” Richie stares, bug-eyed at him from across the table. Patty is shaking next to Eddie, trying her best not to choke on her soda.

“I _swear_ ! Why would I lie about that?!” Eddie’s cheeks hurt from how wide he’s smiling. “I go in there with Dr. Rows, and she’s _finally_ stopped crying about her _fucking_ Jimmy Choos--”

“Those shoes are _so_ uncomfortable, by the way,” Patty interjects, taking another chug of her drink. “For how much they cost, they should feel like walking on clouds!” 

“Daddy’s got money, I guess,” Richie waggles his eyebrows and Eddie snaps his fingers at him. 

“Listen! We walk in, and she stares at us, and the doc says ‘So your tailbone _is_ broken,’ and she looks at me, then back at him, and just starts _sobbing_ again!” Eddie is leaning over the table, waving his hands around while he talks. “And I think, _oh, she’s drunk, she probably doesn’t understand what’s going on_ , but _no,_ this woman looks the doctor dead in the eyes and says: ‘does this mean I can’t have sex in the butt anymore?’” 

Patty chokes and Richie throws his head back and laughs so hard he nearly falls off his chair, the table wobbling with the way his hands grip at the edge. “Eds, _no!_ ”

“ _Yes!_ ” Eddie shouts right back, leaning back into his own chair. 

“What did Dr. Rows say?” Patty asks when she calms herself down enough to talk. She sounds breathless and she has to cough halfway through her sentence. 

“ _Nothing!_ He said nothing! He just stared at her like a deer caught in headlights!” Eddie throws his hands up. “So I said the first thing I could think of!” 

“Which was?” Patty prompts him, moving her hand in a circular motion. 

A little snort escapes through Eddie’s nose before he responds, “‘Well, not today, but maybe in a week or so.’”

The break room is silent for two and a half seconds before Richie and Patty burst into laughter again. Patty is coughing on her Coca-Cola, using her arm to cover her mouth and shaking her head, while Richie just _loses it_ . He’s the kind of person who laughs with his whole body, with loud chuckles and shaking shoulders. He leans back in his chair and throws his head back again, only this time it’s hard enough that his glasses fly right off his face and hit the lockers behind him. He lets out a breathless “ _fuck!_ ” in between his giggles that has Eddie’s heart pounding. 

Once Richie has calmed down enough, he grabs his glasses off the floor and takes a seat. Eddie silently hands him an alcohol wipe before Richie has a chance to put his filthy glasses back onto his face. He takes a few deep breaths and reaches up to wipe a tear that's formed under his eye. “Oh, God, good one, Eds… I haven’t laughed that hard in ages.” 

Eddie swells up with pride, hiding it behind sips from his water bottle. There’s something so satisfying about making Richie, the self-proclaimed jokester of the group, laugh until he cries. Eddie loves to do it. 

“Was she okay afterwards?” Patty asks breathlessly, taking deep breaths through her nose. 

“She was fine, just a little high off the painkillers is all.” Eddie shrugs, finishing off his water and slumping into his seat. Richie is still smiling, rosy-cheeked and radiant, doing what he does best: distracting Eddie. 

Their rare break all together is short-lived, with Richie getting a call for a scuffle in a nearby park. He rushes off with a kiss to Patty’s cheek and a pat to Eddie’s head. 

“Enjoy that hand while you can, Tozier. I’m gonna chop it off when you get back.”

“ _Oh_ _baby!_ Don’t threaten me with a good time unless you really mean it.” 

* * *

Eddie is on his way back from the pharmacy when he hears it, so faint he might have missed it if it wasn’t so silent, like a little buzz in his ear. But… when Eddie turns to look, there’s no one there, just an empty stretch of hallway filled with boxes of supplies. He makes it to the end of the hall when it happens again. 

_“Eddie….”_

He whips his head around so fast he gives himself vertigo, the heavy weight of someone watching him settling onto his shoulders. Once again, the corridor is empty, but the feeling of being watched only intensifies, like each tile on the floor is hiding a pair of eyes. Dread drips down his spine in slow, icy droplets. 

_“You can’t run this time.”_

It’s a whisper right next to his ear, a phantom hand on his shoulder. Eddie jolts, spinning around and throwing his hand behind him, like he’s swatting a fly. In the end, there’s nothing there. 

His work phone vibrates in his pocket and the eyes disappear, the stifling air around him dissipates. 

“Eddie? Did you leave pharm yet? Can you grab me something?” Patty is questioning on the other line. Eddie feels like he’s in another world. “Eddie?”

“Yeah, Yeah I’m here, I haven’t left yet. What do you need?” 

* * *

“You’re comin’ to our show tonite, right?” 

Richie is sitting down at the table while Eddie unlaces his shoes, meticulously cleaning them with Sani-Cloth wipes. He tosses them in a plastic bag as soon as he’s done, pulling on his driving slippers. 

“Is it at that awful bar again?” Eddie goes over to the bathroom behind the lockers to wash his hands and check his reflection in the mirror. He pulls his scrub hat and pushes his wet hands through his messy hair, trying to give it some semblance of care. 

“Oh, c’mon, Eds! It’s not that bad!” Richie shouts, tipping his chair on its hind legs to a dangerous degree. Eddie raises an eyebrow at him and pushes at his shoulder when he walks by, setting him back to have all legs to the tiles. 

“The floor is always sticky and it smells like pot.” He scrunches his nose up, as if he’s actually putting up some sort of fight to the whole thing. It’s worth it when Eddie looks up and sees Richie giving him his signature puppy eyes, complete with a wobbly-lipped pout and clasped hands. Richie whines, sniffling for good measure. It’s _very_ unfair that he looks so cute. 

“Eddiiiiieee!” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and laughs, covering Richie’s face with his own open palm. “Okay, okay, of course I’m coming, you idiot. You are really _giving_ into your band's name with that look.” 

“Woof!” Richie claps once, shooting up out of his chair and taking Eddie with him. “Our set starts at eight-thirty so don’t be late!” 

Eddie scoffs, pulling his backpack over his shoulder. “That’s hilarious, coming from you.” 

* * *

It’s nine o’five when Eddie rushes through the doors to their usual table, off to the left of the stage. 

“Fucking, stupid downtown! The only parking was like, half a block away!” Eddie throws himself onto a stool, out of breath and annoyed. Someone slides him a glass of wine across the table. “Like, are you fucking kidding me? You’re gonna host a whole open-mic night for garage bands and you don’t even have _parking_ available for your patrons?” He takes a swig of his drink and makes a noise of disgust at the table. “Eugh, and of course, this place is filthy as ever. Do they ever clean anything here?” Eddie looks up to see everyone staring at him, mouths twitching with stifled laughs. “What? Wait, why aren’t you guys on stage?” Eddie checks his watch, wondering if he actually _did_ come early and his watch is just broken. 

“We go on at nine thirty!” Richie is smiling ear-to-ear, sounding way too cheerful for a man who is about to get strangled. 

“You told me _eight thirty_!” Eddie stares at each of his friends' faces, but finds no trace of sympathy in any of them. 

“And yet, here you are at,” Stan checks his watch, “Nine fifteen.” he lifts his own glass of wine and tips it in Eddie’s direction. Eddie frowns and clinks his glass against Stan’s. Richie jumps up out of his seat and starts hustling the others towards the stage.

“You’re all a bunch of assholes.” Eddie throws back another mouthful of pinot grigio.

“And you’re always late!” Beverly kisses his cheek and skips off behind Mike. 

Patty rests her head on Eddie’s shoulder and pats his arm, like placating a three year old. “Hello to you, too, Eddie. Did you have a nice nap?” 

Eddie finishes his wine in record time, going for another round with Stan as they sit around the table and wait for their friends to go on stage. 

Back in their second year of college, Richie, looking for any creative outlet he could, and Bill, looking for an excuse to write, would get together in the Tozier-Uris dorm room and make music. Bill wrote the lyrics and Richie sang them, strumming on his garage-sale acoustic guitar. The songs were… pretty bad, nonsensical ballads about whatever random shit Bill could make rhyme, but it had passed the time. Before long Beverly, who had learned how to play the bass during her highschool rock phase, and Mike, who had taken an interest in the drums, started tagging along on their sessions. Richie taught a curious Bill how to pluck strings on the guitar, and thus, Shark Puppy was born. Richie’s passion for showmanship only increased as they got older, and two years ago, using that Trashmouth Charm, Richie had convinced their little garage band to play at some bar’s open mic night. Of course, all the Losers had shown up to support, whooping and shouting among the crowd, and ever since then, Shark Puppy had become a local fan favorite, known mostly for covering songs and the rare “Bichie” collaboration, as they liked to call it. 

Eddie _hated_ the bar that they usually played at, because it was gross and dirty and crowded, but he loved his friends even more than he hated all of that, and so whenever Shark Puppy had a show, Eddie was there, too. Plus, it was always fun to go out and drink with the Losers, dancing around to the other bands with Richie once he had gotten off stage. 

Stan, Patty, and Ben all crowd together next to Eddie at the table facing the stage, making a big show of supportive hollering when the rest of the Losers get set up on stage. 

“Hey, guys! Long time no see!” Richie holds the mic and shifts his weight from foot to foot. “If you don’t know it already, we’re Shark Puppy and we’re here to bastardize all your favorite songs!”

Stan cups his hands around his mouth. “You owe me twenty dollars!” Patty hides a giggle behind her hand. 

“Meet me in the bathroom stall later, Stanny Boy! Which leads us right into our first song!” Richie shouts right back, clicking his tongue. The crowd whistles and whoops in appreciation. Mike bangs on the cymbals to get Richie’s attention and they jump right into their first song, something Eddie only sort-of recognizes by the heavy drum beat and bass line. 

They play a pretty upbeat set, moving from nineties rock to early 2000’s alternative that Richie has shown Eddie a hundred times, but he can’t remember the names of. As the songs go on, Eddie drinks, getting more and more into the music and the passionate way that Richie pours his heart into every note he sings. It’s just past ten-thirty when Richie waltzes back into the middle of the stage, placing the mic into its stand. 

“So, we’re gonna do somethin’ a lil’ different tonite, folks!” His winded voice echoes in the tight space, bright spotlight highlighting the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Eddie can’t help but stare. “My good friend Ben is gonna help us out! Come on up here, Benny Boy!”

Eddie, Stan and Patty stare at Ben in shock, who offers a sheepish smile and trots upstage. Bill, Mike, and Beverly look equally confused, looking to Richie and covering their mics up. Richie covers his and turns around to face them, an unheard conversation on stage. Ben pulls out a black case from behind a speaker and pulls out a saxophone, new and shiny. Eddie hasn’t seen Ben play it in years, and when he looks over at Beverly, her attention is locked onto Ben, too. Richie gets back to the mic and looks over, nodding. “You ready, Ben?”

Ben takes a deep breath and nods, playing notes into a silent room. 

The crowd erupts in cheers and screams of excitement and the rest of the band follows suit, matching Ben’s soulful notes with a steady beat. Richie sways on stage in time, both of his hands gripping the microphone, eyes shut. 

_“Oooohhh… and take a look around the room. Love comes wearing disguises.”_

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat, mouth open as he stares. Richie’s eyes scan the room, landing briefly on him before he looks away to the crowd. 

_“How to go about and choose? Break it down by shapes and sizes…”_

Eddie thinks maybe he drank a little too much, because the room is a dark and blurry Monet painting, with Richie at the center. The beat of the drums pounds along with his heart, the bass pulling a memory forward. 

_“I think you’d sing this really well, actually.” Eddie is lounging on Richie’s couch in his apartment._

_“You think?” Richie stands by his record player, holding up a blue album. White letters spell Saint Motel across the top of it._

_“Yeah,” Eddie nods, smiling. “I think your voice would really suit it.”_

Richie has gotten the crowd to clap along to the beat of the song, getting bolder with the positive attention they throw back at him. Richie has always thrived on validation.

_“I’m a man who’s got very specific taste.”_

Ben starts really going to town on his saxophone, the rest of the band meeting his energy. Richie bounces on his toes, pushing his hand through his sweaty hair while he sings. Even from this distance, Eddie can see how fogged up his glasses are. He must be _radiating_ heat. 

_“Yo_ _u-you-you're just my type! Ohhh you got a pulse and you are breathing! You-you-you're just my type_ _. Ooh, I think it's time that we get leaving!_ [ _You-you-you're just my ty_ ](https://genius.com/Saint-motel-my-type-lyrics#note-4454480) _pe”_

Richie pulls the microphone off the stand to clutch it in his hands, pushing the pole away from him to bend forward. He dances around the stage, bouncing and laughing as best he can as he sings his heart out. He slides back towards the middle and brings the stand close to his body, one hand gripping the mic and the other trailing slowly down, palm wide and fingers spread. He pretends to search the room again. 

“ _When there's loving in the air...Don't fight it, just keep breathing_ _”_

Richie closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his eyes trained down onto his shoes.. Eddie finds himself breathing in with him.

 _“I can't help myself but stare,_ _Double check for double meanings_ _”_

Richie’s eyes flick up, straight to Eddie. He doesn’t search the room again, he doesn’t look away. Eddie thinks maybe he’s dead, because his heart stops, his breathing stops, everything stops except for Richie, a ship getting lost in the ocean.

“ _I'm a man who's got very specific taste_ ”

Richie fucking _winks_ at him.

 _“Yo_ _u-you-you're just my type! Ohhh you got a pulse and you are breathing!_ ”

Richie keeps going, like he didn’t just cock a gun and shoot Eddie right between the eyes, here in public, in front of everyone. He dances around with even more enthusiasm, a cycle of the crowd exciting him and Richie exciting the crowd. He hops off the stage to put himself in the middle of them all, the microphone catching the sound of everyone singing along. 

They play this stupid game every time, this back and forth of maybe-flirting that Eddie can’t decipher properly, especially not when he’s drunk... _especially not_ when Richie sings, looking at him like that, his shirt sticking to his heaving chest, gripping the microphone with long fingers…

Eddie is in the bathroom splashing cold water on his face, taking deep, measured breaths. He grips the counter like a lifeline. He can feel his blood pounding throughout his whole body, rattling his ribcage, thrumming in his ears. He focuses on the cold counter, the sound of running water...droplets that drip off Richie’s hair and onto his nose, over his lips and to his chest, covered up by some stupidly-tight shirt and an ugly patterned button up that would look much better on the _floor…_

“Fuck!” Eddie pants, wishing he could throw a bucket of ice water over his head. He wants to blame the alcohol, because thinking about his best friend like this is dangerous, because Richie is a flirt and a showman who gets caught up in his little acts, who has always been affectionate with Eddie, and to take advantage of that is… it’s…

He looks up at himself in the bathroom mirror, a wobbly fun-house version of himself with dirty hair and a bloody bandage on his cheek. He’s wearing a blue polo and a red cardigan, covered in grime. Eddie breathes, and the image in the mirror breathes with him, blood dripping into the porcelain white sink with every expansion of his lungs. Something breathes from inside the drain. Eddie looks down, not a speck on his purple button up and jeans. He reaches out a shaky hand towards himself, fingers just millimeters from silver glass…

“Eddie?” The bathroom door slams open, Richie’s body following behind his voice. Eddie Jumps, slamming into the side of the stall next to the sink. His chest hurts. He catches a tiny glimpse of Richie’s gleeful face before it switches to concern. One long stride and Richie is in front of him, towering and big and _so fucking warm_. Eddie feels dizzy. 

“Are you okay?” Richie sounds so far away. Eddie sways on his feet. 

“I--” Eddie opens his mouth, tongue and head heavy with the words he wants to say, a jumbled mess of incoherent phrases strung together.

_I think you’re hot, amazing, wonderful, grab me, kiss me, touch me, I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you._

“I think I drank too much.” 

Everything goes black. 

* * *

_It’s cold and wet. His fingers are numb. His legs are numb. Everything is numb._

_“Eddie, stay with me, buddy.”_

_His chest hurts. His head hurts._

_“Eddie!”_

_His cheek is warm. He leans his face into the soft hand that holds it._

_“Richie… I--”_

* * *

Eddie shoots into a sitting position gasping for air like a drowning man, vision swimming with muted colors. The second everything stops spinning, his head pounds with the feeling of twenty knives shoved directly into his temples and eyeballs.

“Fuck….” He groans, curling into his knees. He opens one eye carefully, taking in a grey duvet that is _definitely_ not his. 

“Relax, Spaghetti.” A familiar voice floats in, soft and quiet. Eddie looks over, making out Richie’s outline in the dark. He holds out a bottle and a glass of water. 

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation or the very obvious hangover, but Eddie thinks he looks like an angel. The panic starts to ebb away. He takes the proffered items gratefully, swallowing the painkillers before covering his face with a pillow. “I feel like shit.” 

Richie laughs, and the bed dips with the weight of him sitting down. “I couldn’t understand that, but I’m assuming you said you feel like shit.” Eddie nods under his hiding spot. 

“Was my set that bad?” And the hint of disappointment in his voice makes Eddie rip his pillow off of his face to stare plainly at him. 

“No, It was amazing. You did great.” Eddie says a silent ‘thank you’ to the dark for hiding his burning cheeks. "I knew you'd be perfect for that song."

“Really?” He can just see a hint of Richie’s soft, genuine smile. It’s gone in the next second, replaced by a hesitant glance and a nervous twitch of eyebrows. Eddie swallows the lump in his throat. “Did… something happen in the bathroom? You looked pretty freaked.” 

Eddie scrunches his eyebrows together, trying to swim through the fog of his brain. He remembers Richie, Richie… more Richie… and….

_Blood, gurgling from a hole in his chest, dripping down the drain, a low whisper of his name._

Eddie shakes his head, pulling the pillow back over his face. “No. Nothing happened. I just… drank too much, I think.”

“You sure?” Richie prods, and Eddie can hear the sound of skin sliding on sheets, feel the tips of fingers poke at his forearm. His chest hurts again. 

“Yeah… I’m sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) drop a comment if you liked it!!! here is the song richie sings hehe https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IyVPyKrx0Xo


End file.
